"Sis…let him go."
As expected, Orsin never failed to display his bleeding heart on a platter.
Darrion clenched his teeth, his jaw tight as he pressed his head against the wall, looking up towards the ceiling.
He expected this. Orsin would push his sister into taking the softer option without analyzing the risks.
Letting the boy go?
Where?
To Seraph? Giving their most tenacious enemy an ally? Even if the explosive incident at the penthouse broke morale, wouldn't the fact that the boy was alive give inspiration?
Tristan may be maimed and broken, but any news would be good news.
What about the police?
Darrion ground his teeth. His cover would be the blown. The scandal could rock it's away to state level, most likely federal and other criminal families would slither out of the woodwork to feed evidence to investigative forces. The seven of them would survive, but forced completely underground?
That would drive Ira mad.
As if the boy didn't send her into a spiral already.
He pinched the center of his brow, index and thumb rubbing the edge of his eyes. He had to be proactive. Once Ira gave the order to let that little shit go, no one would step up to go against her. No one could.
Her predatory aura forced out fear from the pores of her enemies and underlings. He was no exception.
Something had to be done before then. Even if the boy was completely broken, physically and mentally, one slip off of his filthy tongue could avalanche into disaster. Darrion could not let that happen.
Edward counted on him.
His little sister, Cana, counted on him.
Ira, his Boss, counted on him. She needed him to do what she couldn't.
Even if she didn't see it.
Lowering his hand, he took a slow breath, nodding to himself.
First, a visit to the kitchen.
Even a dog deserves a last meal.
A dog who was trapped in his own personal hell, his mind in a fractured limbo, unable to escape the pitch blackness crushing him.
Was he floating?
No, he was frozen.
Trapped in an enclosed darkness.
His body ached, pressing against walls that weren't there.
The silence was overwhelming.
The emptiness is vast and unforgiving.
He didn't know where he was.
Did it matter?
He was alone in a void, lunges constantly burning.
He drowned a thousand times.
Yet there was no relief.
He couldn't breathe, yet his heart kept beating.
Aching and waiting.
For her.
"I love you. I will do anything. Just come back—
Come back, Ira. Please. Come back—
Let me out."
The ritual continued even when no air escaped his lips.
Crashing into madness.
"Let me out. Let me out. Let me out! Let me out—
LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT! PLEASE—
I LOVE YOU! SO LET ME OUT—"
A click.
Tristan's eyes sprung open, even though they were worthless in this black cell. He blinked, once, then twice, before he pushed a palm against the ground. It was hard to measure how close or how far any surface in this hell was, but at least he had the floor.
There it was again.
Another click.
No hissing gas.
No dart.
It was the door.
He bit his lip, chewing and peeling off the skin from his chapped lips. His tongue was dry, but the copper coated his taste buds. He was awake. He wasn't dreaming.
The third click.
He placed his other palm on the ebony ground, pushing his chest up. He groaned as the weight of chain almost dragged his head back down. His joints popped and crackled. He wanted to scream, but his throat hurt too much. So he saved his hoarse voice. Saved his energy as he rested back on his knees—knee. He didn't even look at what remained of his left leg; even a single scrap along the floor was a reminder of what no longer belonged to him.
Nothing belonged to him. She took everything and left him with nothing.
Left him AS nothing.
His heart pounded faster hearing the buzz. His eyes fluttered, struggling to stay open.
She came back for him.
It had to be her.
After nuzzling the door, trying to savor what little warmth crept through the steel, begging until his esophagus cracked and he coughed out blood and phlegm, she finally came back.
The door was opening and while he struggled to keep his emotions in check, hope, damnable hope, made tears fall down his cheek, "I-Ira…"
The door stopped its curved slide, and he heard a low, gruff sigh coming from the crack.
It wasn't Ira.
He pushed himself back, dragging his body backwards. He inched back, away from the clear NOT-Ira, pushing the door open. Was it Orsin? Or perhaps his giant ghost, coming to give a sad smile, forcing him to choke on guilt?
A guard coming in to execute him and put him out of his misery?
No. Ira would let no one do that.
He grimaced, one thin hand covering his mouth as he choked back sobs.
She will never you go. She would want you to stay here.
Stay here and suffer.
Then who was it?
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